


Sacred Nectar

by wooden_turtle



Category: Original Work
Genre: Explicit Coffee Brewing, Other, PWP without Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 03:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19737805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wooden_turtle/pseuds/wooden_turtle
Summary: Coffee is the one thing you like to indulge yourself in.





	Sacred Nectar

**Author's Note:**

> Someone wondered if one could go NSFW for coffee and uh, this happened.
> 
> Full disclosure, I don't actually like coffee that much, I'd say I'm more of a tea person. But you could call me a coffee ally, I guess?...
> 
> Enjoy!

There are two elements to a sensual espresso: the grounds, and the steam.

Or, you could argue, there is more. Mainly, the skill and the commitment of the one brewing it. Maybe, a perfect place, and a perfect time, to consume it. Maybe, the absolute, unconditional need of it that trumps any common sense. Maybe, a pinch of either.

You muse on this as you go over the steps in your head. You want to make it perfect—this is the one thing you like to indulge yourself in. A guilty pleasure, of sorts, but it means a lot to you. You refuse to think of it as of your ritual. Rituals are repetitive; they grow boring and bland. This doesn’t.

You imagine the smell that will tease your nostrils in just a minute or two. It’s vivid, drawing both on your memory and your anticipation. It makes your tongue go over your lip involuntarily, and your breath hitch. You want this so much, but you also like the pleasure of dragging out the time, teasing yourself. It’s your own little game.

You open the bag and pour the beans into the grinder. The smell escaped and filled the room, not as refined yet as it will be soon—so soon,—but enough to make your heart beat faster. _Yes._ You feel your mouth fill with saliva and swallow nervously. Your chest fills with warmth.

The grinder is a manual, of course—in fact, it’s an antique. You never told a single soul exactly how much it cost you. You prefer to think price doesn’t matter. The corners of your lips turn upward in a small smile as your hand grips the handle. Gently, but firmly. You like the calm assurance you feel when you grind coffee. It’s a steady process, and it makes you feel in power.

You grind slowly, steadily. Even your breathing even out, falling in with the rhythm. You sigh in content when you’re done.

Your grinder has a neat little drawer you have to pull to extract the grounds. You always think of it as a bit cheeky, as if it’s playing with you. This is probably another tidbit of information about yourself you shouldn’t share with people. You open the drawer and marvel, as you always do, at the fine structure of the essence you crave.

Unable to contain yourself, you bend over, nose almost touching it, and inhale sharply, fully. Yes, you were about to tease yourself, but you lost, okay? Won’t happen again. Probably. Fine, it probably will.

Anyway, you inhale.

The smell explodes inside you, your senses overwhelmed. Your eyelids flutter and close, eyes rolling upwards. Your mouth takes in air sharply in an involuntary attempt to regain control, but it didn’t take into account the proximity of your vice. You end up inhaling even more coffee aroma. As you struggle to calm down a little, your heart beats wildly.

You cannot delay it any further. Your hands shake a bit but you bite your lip and steady them with force of will. You take the grounds out, you dose them into your portafilter, you even them out, you tamp them. Your movements are precise, if a little rushed. You seem extra eager today.

Finally, you are about to brew. You try to quash your anxiety but it’s not easy. You’re still breathing rapidly and the inner side of your lip is a mess. You will yourself to stop biting it. You bite it again.

You cannot take it anymore so you rush to continue. The handle is already in the head and you’re not sure when this happened. Maybe right now. Your favorite cup, the one you use for this sole purpose, is already in its destined place. You pull the handle. As the machine starts to vibrate and the hiss of steam is heard, you realize you’re trembling and your breathing is noisy, too.

Seconds tick in your head with alarming clarity. Given the current state of your mind it’s actually rather strange, but you’ve never let yourself down during this part. You don’t do conventional. Your preferred number of seconds for coffee to brew is twenty-three.

The liquid is trickling slowly into the cup and you cannot bear to see it. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to detach from what’s happening right before you, and just. Count. Seconds. Seventeen. Eighteen.

With the last second clicking in your mind’s ear, you push the handle back. Your heartbeat seems to stop together with the coffee machine. The smell is maddening. Slowly, you open your eyes.

It’s right before you, your ultimate pleasure that you sought so devotedly. You cannot help yourself: a low moan escapes your throat. The less time left before you finally feel the sacred nectar inside your mouth—okay, that was much too cheesy even for you, you admit,—the more strenuous your wait. Your hand shakes again as you reach for the cup. A bit of the liquid spills onto your skin and it burns, but at the moment, you can’t bring yourself to care.

The cup nears your mouth and the smell is overwhelming. You cannot think straight anymore, you’re not even sure you can think at all. Hazily, you ponder the hassle of a burnt tongue versus the pleasure of having it right here and now. Fuck it. You can deal with the tongue later.

The first sip is scorching hot as predicted and you can’t really taste much but you _know_ it’s what you need. Your fingers curl. You hold the liquid in your mouth to cool a bit and when it has, you bend your tongue slightly so that it rolls over to the undamaged part. Your tastebuds finally process it, and it hits you.

You want more. You want it now. Seems like you want it rough today, doesn’t it. You’d chuckle if you had the neurons left that weren’t firing off in glee. The liquid in the cup has cooled down a bit as you cooled your first sip so you gulp what remains in a single motion, swift yet smooth, and throw your head back. Liquid heat rushes down your throat. Your hand trembles so much you start to fear for the cup, so you place it on the table with a thud.

There’s maybe two seconds of suspense, and then it hits you. Your body jerks and for a second, you’re not sure where you are, what you are, even. When you come to your senses, you sway and have to steady yourself on the countertop. There are sparks in front of your eyes. For a brief time, it feels like your brain is able to process all the continuum of the existing parallel universes at once.

You stand like this for a couple of minutes, and it’s only when your hand gripping the counter cramps that you remember exhale deeply. A breathy sigh comes out of your mouth. You shake your head slowly. You’re starting to register the discomfort in your tongue. Whew. This was intense.

Unsteadily, you lower yourself into your kitchen chair. Its seat is soft, just what you need right now. You survey your surroundings. Your usually spotless kitchen looks like a mess, to you, at least. The grinder’s drawer pulled open; droplets of fresh espresso staining your coffee machine, your floor, your table near where you put your cup. You’ll have to clean it in just a few minutes but for now, you let yourself sit on the chair and come to your senses. There’s a reason you don’t do this often.

Still, as you’re gripping your chair with a clenched hand, trying to calm down your breathing and your heartbeat, still feeling the aftershocks of what just happened minutes ago, you can’t help but think.

_This was so fucking worth it._


End file.
